Untitled
by Kiyoshi Dot
Summary: It’s different now, than it was back then, change twisting and folding into something anew and precariously perfect, somewhat like those origami cranes Soubi makes during Ritsuka’s school finals and tucks into his notebooks as little surprises


There is a light tinkling of porcelain plates; soft, yes, is the air settling and sifting through the apartment, touching Ritsuka's ears, floating on past to Soubi, who hums quietly in the kitchen. And Ritsuka can imagine him, without even trying to really: Soubi's slight figure, shoulders tall and yet elegant, head tilted down to the task occupied by those deft white fingers of his, chopping, chopping, carefully, slowly, because Ritsuka so often scolds Soubi for his careless manner in which he prepares the vegetables for their meals.

Ritsuka grasps another plate from the small stack tucked in the crook of his arm, with hands somehow larger than he is used to, slightly calloused -- subtle signs of years progressed and times that have changed.

Sometimes it catches him off guard really, to stand before the mirror, see the little traces of his youth paint the body of the boy before him: eyes not so wide and round anymore, ( not so _fearful_ ), the dark fringes of his hair cut a little shorter around his ears, not _shielding_ those eyes. At times he will simply stare at the face before him, curiously. And how odd to see the tan skin no longer marred with bruises, no longer tainted by white gauze.

Not all things have completely changed though, Ritsuka notes wryly to himself, reaching up to touch the downy curve of one twitching ear. _Kitten ears_, as Soubi so fondly likes to call them, in the darkness, when Ritsuka's long body is fitted so perfectly against Soubi's_. Soubi, stop that_, he will mumble, but it really is alright, he doesn't mind the nicknames anymore. _It's alright_, to hear them now.

He glances up at the clock hanging upon the far wall in the center room, ticking quietly in the lull of the summer evening. Ritsuka worries his brow for a moment, but the thick aroma drifting from Soubi's voice is reassurance that dinner will indeed be ready upon their arrival, _don't fret so much, Ritsuka_.

"It's unbecoming," he mutters aloud, finishing the silent chiding of a voice he is sure to hear quite soon. It makes him uncomfortable, slightly, that faint itch that crawls up the back of his seventeen-year-old spine.

It's different now, than it was back then, change twisting and folding into something anew and precariously perfect, somewhat like those origami cranes Soubi makes during Ritsuka's school finals and tucks into his notebooks as little surprises: _Three frowns left for the day, don't use them up too quickly_.

It's a strange ritual of living with Soubi and massaging his narrow shoulders after they have become too stiff and sore from neglect after hours of infatuated painting.

Ritsuka wakes upon early mornings during school, and nudges Soubi's stomach ( warm, with muscles relaxed and flesh unscarred ) because Soubi still can not wake up on his own and Ritsuka knows he will be late for his own classes if Ritsuka doesn't poke and prod him awake.

Soubi cooks breakfast, drowsily – even though Ritsuka insists it's far too dangerous for Soubi to be near fire or pointy utensils whatsoever so early in the morning. But Soubi simply murmurs something incoherent and Ritsuka hurries clumsily to make sure both their books have been piled correctly in each individual's school bag, assignments printed out (a task which should have been fulfilled the night before); Soubi's paintings arranged neatly in their portfolio by the door.

Soubi makes sure Ritsuka eats the last of the sashimi, feeding him with chopsticks over his shoulder while Ritsuka untangles the knots in Soubi's bed-mused hair with his fingers and smooths down the collar of Soubi's coat.

Somehow, they manage to pile the dishes in the sink without breaking one, and Soubi smiles at Ritsuka as he holds open the door, reassuring him that _yes, you'll make it through the day, stop _worrying_, I'll be fine too._

Kio picks up Soubi with his brightly coloured orange-and-peach-splattered car that he insists is still capable of running properly; and Ritsuka peers over his shoulder to watch them drive away, as he rides his bike to school.

There is always dinner ready for him when he arrives home, the casual touch of Soubi's hands _welcome home_ that brushes along his collarbone as Soubi slips his coat down his arms.

They sit across from one another at the table, and most often a cup is spilled when one of them leans over to kiss away that mischievous bit of food from the corner of the other's mouth. Sometimes there is talk of sheer nothingness, and some evenings there is no talk at all.

There are weekends that neither one of them can quite manage to grasp with their fingers so they do not -- sleeping in until two in the afternoon is _just fine_, acceptable without concern of punishment thereafter. Ritsuka likes to do the newspaper's crossword puzzles with Soubi's glasses perched atop his nose, claiming that they help him see better although both know they do _not_ – _can_ not. Soubi sleeps with his head upon Ritsuka's chest, which rises slowly and easily (_up-down-up-down), _with his hands curled loosely upon Ritsuka's naked stomach, safe beneath the comforting warmth of the boy's worn pajama shirt. Ritsuka's fingers entangle themselves lazily in the silken strands of Soubi's hair, ghost upon the small bumps of Soubi's spine just at the nape of his neck.

Soubi _likes_ to be touched now, almost as much as Ritsuka likes doing so. Ritsuka finds he is enthralled by Soubi's wrists especially, which are slender and pale and delicate, and when he rubs the pad of his thumb over the sharp press of bone beneath skin, Soubi's mouth comes to nuzzle his cheek in wordless approval.

They touch so often now that Ritsuka sometimes forgets they are even doing it, physical contact that once sparked fear brings a sense of comfort and completeness he doesn't even realize at times. It's almost as if there is no thought behind their actions: Soubi's hand upon Ritsuka's waist as he leans around him for that glass from the cupboard, or the way Ritsuka readjusts the buckle on Soubi's belt because _goodness, Soubi_ his pants are hanging much too loosely from his narrow hips again. Their shoulders often caress one another as they walk to the market, fingers curling with one another absentmindedly; Ritsuka fitting the jut of his still-quite-skinny shoulder blades snugly against Soubi's as he waits for the cashier to ring up their frivolous amount of store bought items.

It's all so perfect and all so natural, and Ritsuka knows he shouldn't think so much about it, ponder it in his mind over and over again until it becomes worn out and he can't quite think of _anything_ anymore, just bury his head in the sofa pillows and nurse his throbbing skull to sleep with silence.

But this gentle curl of perfection that encompasses Ritsuka's world is all so unnerving that he can't quite decide if he'd rather go back to the days when life didn't have a chance of making sense at all.

He can't quite get used to this life of normality that has fallen upon them all, and it is odd, although admittedly comforting, to think of Soubi as merely a collage student, who doesn't come home with the scent of blood, but rather the soothing lure of oil paints and old canvasses.

Gone are the nights rank with confusion and that painful twist in Ritsuka's stomach, with his tiny electronic cell phone grasped tightly in his hands _Soubi, why won't you call me and tell me you're alright?_ He doesn't have to wake up in the morning anymore and pray to a shrine nestled in his bedroom closet, _Seimei . . . I miss you _because there is no more _need_ for a shrine, and the pain of that revelation has drained away just as well.

Soubi's neck isn't bandaged any longer, and his closet isn't filled with black high necks shirts (although he is still quite fond of them) – there is no need to hide his neck, those stark reminders engraved within tender skin have faded, along with their memories.

Instead they live in their "uncomplicated" ritual of life, and Kio invites himself over at random hours of the night, of course still teasing Ritsuka about his cat-ears and kisses Soubi on the neck when he thinks Ritsuka isn't watching.

Sometimes Seimei arrives at their doorstep, and smiles at Soubi and says the things friends are supposed to say to one another, _You look well today_, or _How is the gallery coming along?_ Ritsuka tries to pretend they are all merely friends, the three of them, Soubi-Ritsuka-Seimei, and even though Soubi does not avert his gaze when Seimei touches his shoulder, and Seimei sits by his side on the couch near the window, both their feet resting elegantly upon the coffee table as companions, Ritsuka still finds their relationship disconcerting.

_Everything is _fine_ between us_, Seimei reassures him, those dark slender eyes of his regarding Ritsuka languidly. Ritsuka nods, and they go out to lunch as brothers do, but Ritsuka still can not shake that underlying feeling of betrayal unresolved, especially when Nisei tags along and narrows his eyes disgustfully at Soubi's back.

But it is all to be brushed aside, as Soubi murmurs in his ear whenever Ritsuka falls into his thoughtful pensive self. The soft-yet-firm pressure of Soubi's fingertips upon his shoulders draws Ritsuka away from the past; Soubi smells of hope reborn, tinged with a trace of cigarettes -- _nostalgia_, and when Soubi's damp breath teases the strands of hair above Ritsuka's collar, he is able to _let it go_, for the moment. Because Ritsuka is done arguing, done scowling at Soubi with eyes haunted by mistrust. It's easier this way, happier, less . . . complicated, in its own little way.

And so Ritsuka nods to himself, here and there as he folds Soubi's clean shirts or wipes the dust from windowsill, allowing the dark traces of his memories to fall beneath his heel, crunch into tiny pieces that are gobbled up by the seasons of time.

.

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**Author's Note**.  
I wrote this about a year ago while I was switching fandoms and writing styles. Although I had several rough drafts written for this story, they never developed and I was only able to successfully finish this chapter. I stumbled upon it a few days ago and fell in love with the whole feel of it all over again. I'm posting it because I plan on finishing this story. :)

I think it's important to note that **Seimei and Nisei will be a very big part** and driving force of this story, which will describe the "perfectly natural" way Seimei acts towards Soubi; Ritsuka's internal battle with respecting Soubi's wishes to "just forget" the past and accept Seimei and Nisei in their lives.

It's going to be written very differently, scenes intertwined with plot but with an overall gently-moving feel to it. It may bore people but it's ok. I like it. I love thinking of the characters in this manner.

p.s. _did anyone pick up the nod to my fic Touching Soubi?_ ;) a cookie to you if you did!


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